Sweary

Sweary

 

Embittered hag that I am, I was not moved by the recent story that swine flu had claimed its first victim in Iraq.

 

“I’m sure,” scoffed I, “that the Iraqi people have more alarming dangers to gnash their teeth over than fucking swine flu. One victim, when compared to the countless man-made monstrosities Iraq has suffered recently, is surely not all that newsworthy.”

 

“I find it newsworthy,” bellowed Swe.Ge, from behind the sofa. He’s been living there for the past while. Under a tinfoil blanket, breathing through a novelty Darth Vader helmet and with his feet in a bucket of bleach, he bats his flu-related fears over the back of the couch at regular intervals, connected to the rest of the world by the twin evils of broadband and the Fortean Times. Still, at least there’s more space in the bed at night.

 

“What’s newsworthy about it?” I asked, and threw in a little cough for entertainment’s sake. He shrivelled like a salted slug.

 

“Iraq is a Muslim country,” he said, when he recovered. “And … they don’t eat pigs. There are fuck all pigs in Iraq! It’s a hog-free zone! SO WHERE DID THEY GET SWINE FLU? All reaper, and no sow, yes yes.”

 

This swine flu debacle is really starting to annoy me, and not because it’s enduring more than bird flu did, or because I don’t think it dangerous. Or indeed because it’s driven my fella entirely mad. The flu is the flu is the flu. I don’t like getting the flu. It’s a right pain in the all-overs, and I accept it’s one of those things that can flatten you permanently, but at the end of the day, the flu can fly up my flue. And I realise I might get swine flu yet; I don’t believe I’m tempting fate by calling the flu the flu. Fuck the fucking flu! It’s just another fucking wrinkle to tack to the list of Things That Might Kill Me, after all. The Flu, rival despots, cancer, boy racers, falling into a crevasse, zombies, high blood pressure related to the fact that Cheryl Cole is fucking famous, rogue crane flies … I don’t think any of them are worth blowing about for more than ten minutes of my year. Like Morgan Freeman when they let him out of jail that time, I’m gettin’ busy living.

 

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I seem to be the only one. Everyone I talk to is so worried about swine flu they become positively rabid when I sail in on the good ship Nonchalance, and bait me with third-hand stories about people who coughed their own lungs out or shivered so hard they bored holes in the floor. And perhaps I can understand why – nonchalance can be very offensive. I could nonchalant my way into a fatwa (don’t believe me? I don’t care. Sucks to be you).

 

Tragically, though, swine flu is not Kerry Katona, and will not go away if you ignore it. So what’s the point of nonchalance? Surely it cannot be applied as anything other than a boost to mental health for those times when you’re surrounded by hypochondriacs, or as a method of annoying one’s G.P?

 

Not entirely. I figure that when swine flu comes a’ knocking, you’d want to be in a fit state for it, not so exhausted by the probabilities and possibilities that it ends up consuming you, bones and all. If we all run about screaming about swine flu and spraying everything that moves with Domestos, we’ll have no energy left for battling the bastard when it mutates past our feeble kitchen-cleaner defences. Outside of huge profits for the pharmaceutical industry in this global recession, what good will worldwide vaccination programmes do against something that’s been around longer than Gay Byrne and can adapt faster than Enda Kenny’s policies, anyway? And there’s no point stock-piling oranges, either. They go off.

 

Nope, I’m positive that the best weapon against Mother Earth’s population-control policies is not giving half a gob about any of it. There are some things you just shouldn’t waste your time fretting over. Whatever happens, happ…

 

Ooh. Phew. Bit of a flush, there. I’m not feeling so fabulous. Must be the ranting. Think I’d better … have a lie down …

 

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